American Justice

by J K Ellem

  Ahead the horizon glowed and slowly changed shape, becoming more defined, straight lines and boxy shapes. An overpass of thick concrete lined with tall light towers came into view. A huge neon sign tower rose up in the distance, bright as a beacon in the desert wasteland darkness. A cluster of buildings dotted with lights and neon came into view along with a large motel sign.

  An exit sign indicated one mile to the turn off so Cueball dropped back alongside Skunk, indicating with a wave of his hand that they were going to take the exit. Five minutes later they swung into the massive truck stop complex. Skunk followed Cueball as he headed for the parking lot. Then, like they had done at the other three gas stations and diners they had searched so far, they rode slowly up and down the lanes of the parking lot looking for the white car. This parking lot was bigger than the others, so they split up, Skunk started at one end while Cueball took the other. Methodically they rode at almost walking pace, looking left and right, checking colors and plates.

  Ten minutes later they drew alongside each other in the middle, their machines throbbing under them.

  Skunk shook his head. “Didn’t see it.”

  Cueball nodded. The parking lot was well lit and if the car was there they would have found it. Cueball was about to kick the bike into gear when he glanced at the diner attached to the main building. Along the front was a wide expanse of glass windows. It was brightly lit inside, people sitting and eating, waitresses bustling about. He paused a moment, wrestling with the idea of going inside, but that meant being seen and a solid, bald biker with a distinctive limp would get noticed.

  He kicked his bike into gear as a man and woman walked out of the main entrance of the diner. Cueball held the brake and watched them for a moment. They were about two hundred yards away, heading for the highway on foot, toward a long footbridge that stretched across the road.

  They passed under a pool of light and Cueball felt his gut tighten.

  It was them; Cueball was sure of it. He never forgot a face, especially the face of the person who shot him in the leg.

  “Son of a bitch,” Skunk muttered, his head turned in the same direction. The couple vanished from view for a moment, emerging again behind a row of motorhomes.

  Cueball and Skunk dowsed their lights then peeled away in the opposite direction, keeping their revs low, the sound of their bikes lost in the constant background wash of highway noise.

  They drove behind the main building, past a loading dock with a concrete ramp, rows of dumpsters, and a large garbage compactor.

  The back of the building was deserted, except for a waitress standing near the rear door of the kitchen in a pool of light, a cell phone pressed to her ear. The waitress didn’t give them a second glance as Cueball and Skunk swept past.

  Emerging on the other side of the building, they skirted the last row of vehicles on the side of the parking lot near where long haul trucks were parked. They parked in the shadows and cut their engines.

  Skunk smiled when Cueball reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a handgun. He was taking no chances this time. Skunk already had a knife tucked into his waistband.

  The spaces were bigger in this section of the parking lot, specifically designed for the myriad of SUVs, motor homes, and camper trailers that were parked there, providing ample cover.

  They cut through two rows before Cueball pulled Skunk down behind the tailgate of a large pickup and relayed his plan to him. Skunk nodded then slunk away into the darkness.

  Cueball bobbed up, getting his bearings on the couple. They were about a hundred yards ahead, walking slowly, at right angles to where he was crouching. He squatted down again, drew his hand gun, and eased back the slide. A round jacketed in brass sat ready in the chamber.

  Still crouching he quickly followed the channel between the parked cars and headed toward the couple.

  Shaw stopped, turned, and looked behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” Jessie stopped by his side.

  Around them was a maze of vehicles, all different sizes and shapes, some lighted by the towers they were parked underneath, many hunkered in the darkness where the light didn’t reach. But as they approached the edge of the massive parking lot the lighting was more sparse.

  “I’m not certain,” Shaw replied, his eyes trying to distinguish between the shapes. In the distance a man and a woman were walking, arm in arm toward their car. To the left of them a little farther back a man had the tailgate of his pickup down and was searching for something inside. Shaw could see the yellow glow of the interior light.

  Shaw turned back to Jessie. “I thought I heard something.”

  “I can hear plenty of things; we’re next to the highway.”

  Shaw looked over his shoulder one more time then continued walking.

  A shape stepped out in front of them, hidden between a row of vehicles.

  “Surprise, asshole.” Skunk stepped forward, and Jessie and Shaw stopped.

  29

  It would be a simple fight, over in seconds. Shaw didn’t even bother asking how the biker had found them. He just pushed Jessie behind him and stood his ground.

  It was only when Skunk grinned, a confident grin with his crooked yellow teeth, that Shaw knew he had made a tactical error. The distant sound of metal he had heard a few moments ago was not someone unlocking their car or the sound of a tailgate being lowered. It was the racking of the slide on a handgun.

  Shaw spun around to see Cueball emerging between two cars, handgun pointed at Shaw’s head.

  Shaw watched Cueball as he limped toward them. “And here I was being kind and not shooting you in the kneecap.” He alternated his attention between the two.

  Reaching behind him, Skunk pulled out a length of hardened rubber, eight inches long, from a nylon holster on his belt. “You got no gun now, asshole,” he hissed.

  Even in the partial light Shaw knew exactly what the man held in his hand and wasn’t fooled by its size.

  Skunk flicked his wrist and instantly the telescopic baton extended to its full length, twenty-six inches of bone-breaking hardened steel.

  “We want the girl,” Cueball said. “We’ll let you go, but she stays.” He pressed forward, gun in Shaw’s face. “If she resists, you die.”

  It was a lie and Shaw knew it. He could tell from Cueball’s face, the hatred that lurked behind the man’s eyes. It was the biker’s creed. He wanted retribution for what Shaw had done, for killing another brother as well as for shooting him in the leg.

  He was going to kill them both.

  Skunk edged forward, baton in hand, two wolves circling their prey. Jessie pressed herself into Shaw’s back, her gaze switching between both men as they closed in.

  “Skunk, take the woman,” Cueball said.

  Skunk grabbed Jessie’s arm and pulled her away. Shaw pivoted, fists balled.

  “Now, now, now,” Cueball said. “You so much as move another inch I’m going to shoot you in the face. The woman, too.” He looked at Jessie. “You make a sound, bitch, and I’ll kill your boyfriend here.”

  Shaw gritted his teeth, his entire body tense and ridged, like a coiled animal trapped in a cage. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck to the side of his face. A heat that was slowly turning into a molten rage.

  Skunk pulled Jessie to the side and brought the baton across her throat from behind. He whispered in her ear, his breath hot and rancid, “I’ve never had dark meat before.” He licked the side of her face in one slow, sticky movement, leaving a glistening trail of saliva. “You taste good. I wonder what you taste like down below.” Jessie stumbled as he dragged her backward, the baton tight across her throat.

  Shaw turned and watched. Instead of fear in her eyes, he saw a pleading look not to intervene. She gave a shake of her head to him.

  Skunk stopped dragging her. He dropped his hand to Jessie’s front, grabbed her breast roughly, and twisted it hard, his bony fingers digging viciously into her. Jessie stifled a cry of pain, swallowing hard as tears of fr
ustration streamed down her face. But she was determined not to cry out, no matter what.

  Jessie squirmed as Skunk groped her. “Oh,” he whispered, “you are a youngin’, nice firm tits.”

  It was the last act of indignation Jessie would take. She exploded in rage, and unleashed like an alley cat. She drove her elbow back hard, right into Skunk’s stomach, driving the wind out of his skinny body.

  She heard a muffled gasp as the baton eased from her throat and the claw-like fingers gripping her breast relaxed. She spun around and raked Skunk’s face, her nails slashing, wanting to tear his face from his head.

  Cueball’s eyes darted past Shaw to see what the commotion was. That’s all Shaw needed. He shot in, chopped down on Cueball’s wrist with the blade of his hand, then clamped down on the wrist, twisting it back.

  Cueball struggled, brute force and mass unrelenting. Together they twisted and spun, Shaw trying to get control of the gun, Cueball trying to aim the gun at Shaw, hand-to-hand training versus a lifetime of bar room brawls and street fights.

  Shaw pivoted, wrenching at the gun, keeping the barrel pointed skyward, but Cueball hung on. “Run, Jessie,” Shaw yelled over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the weapon, two sets of hands fighting over it.

  Jessie stumbled back, pushing Skunk away, the man clutching at his eyes, the baton on the ground. She hesitated, then watched as Skunk snatched up the baton, wheezing and spitting.

  She had to run, get help, but in a blind panic she turned and ran away from the building, toward the darkness, toward the heavy truck parking area.

  Cueball suddenly let go of one hand around the gun, and in that moment Shaw made a mistake. He was so focused on the gun, he didn’t realize the ploy.

  Cueball curled his free hand into a fist and drove it at Shaw’s face.

  Late, but not too late, Shaw twisted his neck and the ball of knuckle and bone that was meant for his face slammed into the side of his head, just behind his ear.

  A million camera flashes went off in Shaw’s head. The parking lot, all the darkness, the cars, trucks, SUVs, all objects vanished in an instant, replaced by total whiteout.

  Shaw went down on one knee, a blind man in a world of nothingness. Cueball recovered and stood over him, holding the gun an inch from Shaw’s head.

  Skunk was of two minds: run after the woman or finish beating the living daylights out of Shaw.

  Cueball tightened his hand around the gun then stopped. “Too easy, dog,” he said before lowering the gun.

  Skunk, his face covered with bloody gashes, staggered up behind Shaw, baton raised.

  Cueball nodded.

  Skunk clubbed Shaw on the back of the skull. They dragged him between two vehicles and dumped him. Cueball wanted Shaw to suffer, long and hard, not a quick death.

  They would come back for him after they found the woman.

  30

  It took ten seconds for Jessie Rae to go from fighting like an alley cat to stone dead limp. She clawed, kicked, and gouged at her assailant but her efforts were futile. Sam Pritchard was too big, too powerful, and too cunning.

  He couldn’t believe it when out of the darkness the woman came running right to him. He’d been watching the diner from the cab of his truck when he saw the woman and the man leave. A plastic bottle and cotton pad lay on the seat beside him as he tried to figure out how to lure the woman away from the man without causing a scene.

  But then another scene unfolded before his very eyes. He watched as the two men approached the couple. There was some sort of altercation, but Pritchard couldn’t see clearly, his view obscured by rows of vehicles and poor lighting.

  Next thing he knew the woman was running toward his truck.

  When he was certain she was totally under, he eased away the chloroform-soaked pad from her face and gently lowered her to the ground in the darkened shadows next to his truck.

  Looking around, he made sure no one had seen her or him.

  Good, she was all his now. A gift delivered right into his waiting arms.

  He squatted next to the truck chassis and felt for the button on the underside. He found the button release, pressed it, and a large rectangular metal drawer slid partially open. The compartment was deep enough and wide enough, with a padded interior, to hold a large person flat on their back. It had been specially designed and fabricated in his workshop shed.

  The compartment was sound-proof and had its own air system that ran off a secondary battery to circulate air so the occupant didn’t suffocate.

  The hidden compartment slid out silently on well-oiled rollers. He picked up Jessie like a rag doll and gently placed her inside, straightening her arms and legs before folding her hands neatly over her chest. He brushed her hair from her face and paused for a moment, admiring how beautiful and peaceful she looked. She was a sleeping angel, oblivious to where she was or the horrors he was soon to introduce her to.

  He slid the tray back under the chassis; the latch gave an audible click as it locked into place with his new precious cargo inside. The compartment was totally hidden from the outside unless you knew exactly what to look for.

  Pritchard gathered up the chloroform pad, then turned and saw the silhouette of two men standing twenty or so feet away, near the front of the truck, back lit by a light tower in the parking lot. They just stood there for a moment, undecided. He was so engrossed with the woman he didn’t hear them coming.

  “Hey man, what you doing back there?”

  Pritchard straightened and dropped the chloroform pad on the ground behind him. He couldn’t see their faces, just their outlines. One was short and squat, the other tall and thin. Slowly the two men started to walk toward him. The squat man walked with a distinct limp.

  “I said what you doing back there?” Another question, this time more suspicious. “What you got under your truck?” The two men approached along the narrow channel between the two trucks, their faces becoming clearer.

  “What did you do with that woman?” the squat bald one asked. “I know she came down here; we saw her.”

  Pritchard shrugged, “I ain’t seen no woman.” Pritchard kicked one of the big truck tires with his boot. “Just checking on my tires, making sure they’re good to go.”

  “Bullshit,” the thin man spat. “You must be blind gramps. We saw the black bitch run this way, straight toward your rig.”

  “Yeah, where’d you hide her?” the bald one chimed in. Cueball and Skunk stood their ground. They wanted the woman; kicking the old fool’s ass would be an added bonus.

  Cueball said, “Don’t make me hurt you, old man. I’m going to ask you just one more time. Where’s the woman?”

  “Hey fellas, I have no idea what you are talking about.” Pritchard edged sideways, closer to the chassis. He knew every inch of his truck, every welding knit, every rivet, every bolt. “I need to get on the road.” He stopped where he needed to be. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”

  A gun was pulled out and pointed at Pritchard’s face. “Not so fast, gramps. First you’re going to tell us what you did with that woman.”

  Cueball pressed the gun forward. “Or I’m going to put a bullet in your fuck ugly face.”

  Skunk snickered a laugh. “She’s ours, grandpa; you ain’t got no wood in your cock. Fine piece of ass would be wasted on a limp-dick old timer like you.” Skunk moved closer, trying to flank Pritchard.

  Pritchard kept his hands at his sides, had to, then turned his left side toward Skunk, shielding where his right hand was going. He leaned down, seeming to rest his hand on the edge of the chassis while his fingers felt underneath the steel frame behind the housing of one of the side running lights.

  By the time Skunk’s pea-sized brain clicked into gear, it was too late.

  There was a blur of bright steel and a whoosh as the blade slashed up then out at Skunk, slicing his face diagonally, upward from the bottom of his chin to the corner of his eyebrow, opening up his face like a split peach.

  Skunk s
creamed like a girl: a high-pitched shriek as blood sheeted out, silky and hot.

  Pritchard barreled forward, grabbing then turning Skunk into Cueball, using the screaming man as a human shield.

  Cueball tried to bring the handgun to bear on Pritchard’s head, but staggered backward as Skunk was rammed into him, blood spraying into his eyes.

  Then the knife came at Cueball, from behind and around Skunk’s bloody face, but this time it was in short, punchy jabs. Six, seven, then eight brutal deep punctures into Cueball’s fat head, nose, cheeks, and jaw.

  A gunshot rang out, but it was low and the round skidded into the dirt.

  The blade finally found Cueball’s right eye, plunging all the way in, bursting through the gelatinous orb before driving through his eye socket, and deep into his brain.

  Cueball convulsed, dropped the handgun, and collapsed to his knees before keeling over.

  Skunk screamed again at the sight, a miserable pitiful howl. Pritchard held him firmly by the scruff then buried the blade into the side of his neck, twisting, withdrawing, then letting the skinny man slump down next to his partner in the dirt.

  Pritchard stepped back, his fist gloved in red, the blade a sticky long spike in his hand. He regarded the two men on the ground for a moment, enjoying the sudden rush he felt.

  Cueball gave a jitter then stopped moving. Skunk lay still, a sucking noise coming from his neck, mushy red dirt spreading under his head.

  The truck stop glowed in the distance as Beth drove, a fluorescent halo on the inky-black horizon. Davis was right behind her as they sped along the highway, no strobe lights, no sirens, but doing well above the speed limit.

  Beth desperately wanted to apprehend the man and woman. She was simmering with anger that the FBI had pushed her aside back at the motel. This was still her turf and she didn’t appreciate them barging in. She wanted some of the credit. She wasn’t some dumb-ass cop from some sleepy backwater town. But that’s how they had made her feel.